


Favourite words

by damnmydooah



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Drabbles, F/M, Gen, Other, Writing Exercise
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-24
Updated: 2016-02-14
Packaged: 2018-05-16 01:35:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5808202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/damnmydooah/pseuds/damnmydooah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Short Elementary whatsits based on a list of pretty words. Basically a writing exercise as I try to figure out how to write for this fandom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Based on this post: http://damnmydooah.tumblr.com/post/137766749207/sobforsirius-a-collection-of-various-tumblr
> 
> My intention is to eventually do all of them, but I figured I'd post the first few in the meantime.

 

**ataraxia;** _a state of freedom from emotional disturbance and anxiety; tranquility_

“Have you tried meditating?” As they were discussing a case as of thirty seconds ago, it takes Watson a second to figure out what the fuck he’s talking about. “Sherlock, I told you-”

“Yes I am well aware, you are fine, you are working through it in your own way, this is where and how you need to be and it is in many ways absolutely none of my business but bloody hell Watson I can hear you at night!” He’s worked himself into a state now, face red, his whole body stiff and vibrating with annoyance. Watson blinks at him. “I just thought, Watson,” his voice a little gentler now, “that if your waking mind could find some peace, your dormant one would follow. That is all.” He looks at her a little bit longer and then slumps, busies himself with some photos.

“I will look into some techniques,” Watson says softly. “Maybe it’ll help. I’m sorry if I-” Sherlock shakes his head. “I’m sorry for my outburst. I’m still learning to adapt my tone for people I…” He searches her face. “For the important ones.”

                                                           

* * *

 

 

**bling;** _a slang term popularized in hip hop culture, referring to flashy, ostentatious, or elaborate jewelry and ornamented accessories_

“Well?” Sherlock presents his wrist, where the record producer’s gift of gratitude sits in all its blinding yellow gold-and-diamond encrusted glory. It is preposterous, its shiny newness in enormous contrast to the faded green (or is it brown?) of Sherlock’s almost-frayed jacket cuff. Watson stares at it, then goes to the closet to retrieve the shoebox. Sherlock takes off the watch and drops it in with the three other ones, the long silver chain with the ruby at the end and that tiara the Russian heiress swore to them belonged to one of the Romanovs. Together they consider the contents. “Surely that is enough to send Clyde to college,” Watson says drily. Sherlock makes that face where he’s trying very hard to disapprove of her joke and turns on his heel, tugging his shirt cuff back over his naked wrist.

 

* * *

 

  **brontide;** _a low muffled sound like distant thunder heard in certain seismic regions especially along seacoasts and over lakes and thought to be caused by feeble earth tremors_

“What the hell was that?” Watson says, trying to figure out the best way to shield herself from torrential rain under the completely vertical shelter that is a tree. The lake looks quiet enough, even with its surface marred by the unrelenting drops, but the rumble that just sounded through it seems to belie that impression.

Sherlock opens his mouth to explain. “It’s-” “You know what, I don’t care. I think I see a cabin on the other side there. Let’s try to not die of exposure today.” When he doesn’t immediately follow her, she comes back to grab him by the sleeve and bodily drag him with her.

“You can tell me about the thing when we’re inside, okay?”

 

* * *

 

 

**decadence;** _moral or cultural decline as characterized by excessive indulgence in pleasure or luxury_

 

Watson is lured down into the kitchen by the heady scent. “You’re making chocolate pudding?”

“Chocolate _mousse_ ,” Sherlock corrects, half-turning towards her before going back to his bowl. There is chocolate on his nose and forehead. Watson dips a finger into the bowl before he can snatch it away. His forearms are dusted in cocoa powder.

“I’m sorry this case has you so vexed,” Watson sympathizes, leaving the kitchen. “But please don’t throw this one away. It is delicious.”

The pleased little smile that slips onto his face in spite of himself makes her day.

 

* * *

 

 

**defenestration;** _the action of throwing someone out of a window, or, the action or process of dismissing someone from a position of power or authority_

“We could just throw him out the window,” Sherlock muses.

“W-what?” Their suspect nervously glances behind him, where the open window looks out on a seven-storey drop. Watson pretends to consider it.

“Would you like to do the honors, Watson?”

Watson grins and reaches into her bag for her baton. She extends with a satisfying snap. “My pleasure.”

Ten minutes later, they have a full confession.

 

* * *

 

 

 

**gossamer;** _a light, thin, and insubstantial or delicate material or substance_

 

He knows he shouldn’t be staring, but he can’t help himself. With the light behind her, her thin dress has turned see-through and he can see every detail of her silhouette. The curve of a breast, the dip of her waist, the flare of her hip…

“Marcus, are you still with us?” Watson is so focused on her own explanation that she hasn’t noticed him looking but next to her, Sherlock is making a face. Marcus collects himself.

“Yeah, still here. So what were you saying about that ship?”


	2. Chapter 2

**absolution;** _act of absolving; a freeing from blame or guilt; release from consequences, obligations, or penalties_

“Watson, you are forgiven.” Sherlock beams at her magnanimously where she sits at the kitchen table. Well, “beams” might not be the right word. The line of his mouth ever so slightly curves upward at one end. Watson puts down her apple.

“I am what now?” Sherlock makes that impatient movement where he vaguely surges forward as though he’s going to do a little hop, but his expression does not change. “For yesterday.”

“Yesterday…” Watson pretends to have forgotten, secretly taking pleasure in his increasing annoyance. His smile is beginning to strain. “Oh, you mean that thing where you accused me of colluding with Alfredo, which somehow constituted a betrayal of our partnership?”

“Uh hm,” confirms Sherlock, knees locked, thumb and forefinger on his right hand tightly pressed together.

“Yeah. Never planned that, didn’t do it, do not need to be forgiven.” Her apple core lands in the trash as she walks out of the kitchen without looking back.

 

* * *

 

 

**astronomy;** _the scientific study of matter and phenomena in the universe, especially in outer space, including the positions, dimensions, distribution, motion, composition, energy, and evolution of celestial objects_

“Sherlock!?”

“No need to shout, Watson, I am right here.” Sherlock’s head is sticking from the door leading to the rooms behind the kitchen. Watson waves a hand at the table. “What is that bottle of wine doing there?”

Sherlock takes some time to think about the answer, as though he’s not sure what it should be. “Experiment,” he finally says, and withdraws his head. Before the door can close completely, Watson is through it. “Sherlock, what - ” She halts abruptly to prevent colliding with Sherlock’s back. The room is dominated by an enormous, Rube Goldberg-esque contraption made up of glass tubes and Erlenmeyer flasks.

“Chateau Margeaux ‘58, Watson,” Sherlock says without looking at her as he fiddles with a knob. When he does look at her, his eyes twinkle. “Comet year.”

 

* * *

 

 

**camaraderie;** _mutual trust and friendship among people who spend a lot of time together_

“We have a couch here now?” Watson regards the lumpy looking, faded yellow furniture dominating the tv room with slight trepidation. “Where did it come from?

Sherlock doesn’t take his eyes off the screen, where something is playing in black and white. “It was out on the kerb on Whatsits street. Looked comfortable.”

“And you lugged it all the way over here?” Watson tries not to think of bed bugs and other gross things the couch could be hiding, but reasons that Sherlock probably wouldn’t bring something home he didn’t think was safe. Probably.

“Marcus helped.” One spot over on the couch, Bell gives a little wave. “It was only a few blocks,” he says by way of explaining. After some consideration, Watson shrugs and tells him to scooch, sitting down between the men. The couch is very comfortable indeed. She reaches for the popcorn in Sherlock’s lap. “So what are we watching?”

 

* * *

 

 

**eunoia;** _comes from the Greek word εὔνοια, meaning “well mind” or “beautiful thinking”_

One day, Watson finds herself staring at Sherlock in the library. He is reading a book on Russian war crimes (“utterly vital”, he’d said, to their case concerning a missing dolphin), brows furrowed in concentration as he speed reads through the pages.

She honestly thought it was a trick that first time. The way he “guessed things”, as she had put it then. But now she knows that he spends countless hours studying every facet of the world, stocking his brain attic with any and all information he deems useful to doing what he does. Or maybe he just needs to keep his mind busy, to stop him from going mad.

But that doesn’t change the admiration she has for the way his mind works. The information is merely the food that fuels his reasoning skills, lubricating his neural pathways and driving his deductions. She tries to hide it, but Watson is often left in awe of Sherlock’s abilities.

Noticing her stare, Sherlock looks up. “Something on your mind, Watson?”

Watson just smiles.

 

* * *

 

 

**loquacious;** _tending to talk a great deal; talkative_

 

“Sherlock. Shut up.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I will try to update somewhat regularly," I wrote to a commenter a while back. 
> 
> Oops?
> 
> Credit for Leonora as Ms. Hudson's last name goes to hophophop, who is brilliant. Go read all their stories.

**fantastical;** _based on or existing only in fantasy; unreal_

“Nobody puts Joanie in a corner,” purrs Sherlock, his chest glistening in the wide open vee of his black button down shirt. He takes Joan’s hand and pulls her close to his body, hips undulating to the beat of the music. She automatically follows his movements in reverse, pushing back against the rhythm every once in a while to send a delicious current of friction through both their bodies. Her skirt swirls around her as Sherlock spins her before pulling her back in, breasts pressed against his chest, her bosom heaving. Their fingers intertwine as Sherlock’s hand on her back slips lower as he presses against her, leaving no room for interpretation as to his intentions. “Joan,” he says, his voice low and buttery. “I’ve had the time of my-”

“Miss Hudson, I think you might have dropped a stitch. Or six.” Joan’s voice breaks through the reverie.

 _I have got to stop watching that movie_ , thinks Leonora. _Or at the very least get my sex life back on track._

 

* * *

 

 

**furtive;** _attempting to avoid notice or attention, typically because of guilt or a belief that discovery would lead to trouble; secretive_

 

One Thursday morning, Watson doesn’t see Sherlock. She knows he’s in the brownstone, and that he is without companion, so she can’t quite figure out why he hasn’t shown himself. It isn’t until she’s enjoying breakfast in the media room and sees his reflection in one of the television’s screens slipping past the door that she begins to realize that something is up.

“Sherlock?” she calls out. No response. Five minutes later she spots him going the other way, into the hallway. She silently gets up to follow and actually finds him exaggeratedly tiptoeing past the banister, his pink-and-green striped socks standing out starkly against the dark wood of the floorboards.

“Good morning,” she says conversationally. He freezes mid-tiptoe. She notices suddenly that he is holding something. The way he is not turning towards her to return her greeting leads her to believe he’s done something she’s not going to like. When she finally convinces him to turn around, she finds he’s got one of her favorite soft pink toeless ankle boots.

Completely covered in blood.

Before she can open her mouth to scream at him, Sherlock’s sprinted into the next room and locked the door. He doesn’t come out all day.

 

* * *

 

 

**partial;** _existing only in part; incomplete_

 

Watson has left for vacation two days ago, and Sherlock is in a funk. He would never call it that himself, of course, but it is, quite noticeably, that. A funk. He is, among other things, less focused, less coherent, less articulate, less sharp-tongued (although Marcus admits he quite likes that), less quick-witted.

He is, in a word, less.

Marcus thinks of Plato and his soulmate theory and decides to cut Sherlock some slack.

 

* * *

 

 

**sonorous;** _(of a person’s voice or other sound) imposingly deep and full_

Sherlock sings. Not often, mind, but when he does, Watson camps out in the hallway to enjoy his powerful voice through the bathroom door.

She takes it his date with Fiona the night before went well, because he is singing something melodious and upbeat. She doesn’t recognize the tune, isn’t sure there are even really words involved. But he sounds happy, which in turn makes her happy. When he emerges from the room in his towel, partially dried hair sticking out in all directions, she grins at him, clapping softly. He has the good grace to smile back. Busying herself with breakfast in the kitchen a little later, Joan finds herself humming as well.

* * *

 

 

**vespertide;** _the period of vespers; evening_

 

Their dinner finished, they return to the library and the murder wall. It being a chilly night, Sherlock makes a fire and they pull their respective chairs in close. They work mostly in silence, only the occasional murmur passing between them, asking a question or confirming something. Sherlock goes down to the kitchen to fetch them each a bowl of strawberry ice cream which they enjoy re-examining the autopsy photos. They discuss theories, Watson surprising Sherlock with knowledge he didn’t know he lacked, and Sherlock going off on a tangent which Watson allows, knowing he’d circle back to the point eventually. It is a ritual they had performed many times, and each knows it well. Around eleven, Watson pushes the sofa in closer and spreads her files out on the cushions, taking up residence in their midst. At midnight, Sherlock pulls a manila folder from under her legs and covers her with the throw from the back of the sofa. He returns to work in silence.


End file.
